


So Open Up Your Heart And Let (This Fool Rush In)

by nerddowell



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Accidental Dating, Awkwardness, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Bad Puns, Blind Date, Fluff, M/M, Philippe is sweet and awkward and I love him, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 17:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11514240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: “your friend set you up on a blind date and i happened to be eating alone so you thought you were meeting me and you were cute so i went along with it but you just got a text from said friend that theyre sorry your date stood you up and now i have some explaining to do” au





	So Open Up Your Heart And Let (This Fool Rush In)

**Author's Note:**

> I just could NOT think of a title so here, I love Bow Wow Wow and Sofia Coppola's _Marie Antoinette_ so have this one from _Fools Rush In_.

‘Liselotte, no. Please.’

‘Philippe, I’m only doing what’s necessary. If I have to drag you headfirst out of a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and the bottomless pool of self-pity you’ve been wallowing in since Arsehole – sorry, Armand – left you, then I will scream. Or kill you. Possibly both. At the same time.’

Philippe groans. ‘But a blind date? I know I’ve annoyed you recently, but I didn’t know you hated me that much. You know what I’m like on dates where I _do_ know what the person looks like beforehand. At least on Tinder I get to weed out the assholes first.’

‘Philippe, you have dated no fewer than eight assholes in your short life, and the people you tend to swipe left on are the ones who look like actual decent people. You’re obsessed with the kind of man who spends all his time in the gym with his head so far up his own arse it’s a mystery how he can breathe.’ He can hear her rolling her eyes. ‘This one is as vain as you usually seem to like, has the same sarcastic-bordering-on-plain-mean sense of humour, and is, as much as I get the feeling that I’m letting myself in for more of the same later, perfect for you at the moment. At least he’ll show you a good time.’

‘I don’t want to go,’ Philippe says mulishly, setting his jaw.

‘I’ll pick you up at eight, in whatever you’re wearing at the time, and take you. If you want to make a good impression, I highly suggest showering and wearing that nice grey shirt of yours instead of your pyjamas and a duvet the way I’ve seen you over the past six weeks.’ She hangs up.

‘Shit,’ Philippe says to himself, and slouches up from the sofa to take a shower.  
  


* * *

  
Liselotte and Maria-Theresa (the muscle) drop him off outside a small, tucked-away sort of restaurant down one of the narrower streets in Paris. The front is draped with ivy, framing large sashed windows and a door painted green under an arch of white faux-Roman columns. From what he can see, it’s very busy inside, which is both reassuring and terrifying at once; lots of background noise to hide whatever inevitable stupid thing comes out of his mouth, and a great many witnesses to his equally inevitable humiliation when the date bombs. He gathers his courage, straightens his shirt collar, and enters the restaurant, glancing among the tables to try and identify his date.

There’s only one table with a single occupant. The table in the corner nearest the window, with a gorgeous window seat left empty and one of those hipster light fittings with a bulb inside a mason jar dangling above the table. There’s a poster of a classic film, something English by Hitchcock, above the other person sat there, and that’s when Philippe’s breath catches in his throat.

His date is gorgeous.

As Liselotte had said, it’s pretty obvious that he’s the type of guy that takes good care of his appearance; his skin is like porcelain, clear and a warm colour beneath the buttery yellow light of the restaurant. His hair is loose blond curls, soft spirals drawn back off his face with a hairband like 2003 David Beckham (one of Philippe’s embarrassing man crushes from his teenage years), and reaches his collar. Philippe walks over to the table on slightly shaky legs, nerves definitely getting the better of him, and awkwardly slides into the window seat, shifting to get comfortable before daring to glance up at the man’s face.

He’s smiling, polite interest in his blue eyes, and raises his eyebrows expectantly when Philippe opens his mouth to introduce himself and promptly forgets how to Words.

‘Uh – uhm – I’m, I’m Philippe.’ He holds his hand out and the man shakes it, brushing a thumb over the knuckles for a split second. Philippe’s stomach is doing backflips, which is ridiculous, because he’s been on god knows how many first dates and should be an old hand by now, and yet it still only takes a small gesture from a handsome man to have him tongue-tied and starry-eyed like a clueless teenager all over again.

‘Call me Chev.’ The man passes Philippe a menu and picks up his own, flicking through it with little interest before putting it down again and resting his hands – loosely folded over one another – on the table to fix Philippe with a light gaze.

‘So, Philippe,’ he begins, in a voice like velvet, ‘here I am. What were your other two wishes?’

Philippe snorts. ‘The flying car from Grease and John Travolta to drive it.’

‘Please tell me you’re joking,’ Chev says with a fake roll of his eyes, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth and eyes bright and full of laughter when their eyes meet again, ‘you don’t have the face for blond.’

Philippe raises an eyebrow. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘That you should stay exactly as you are, Sandra Dee. Striking in black,’ he thumbs gently at Philippe’s tousled chin-length crop, ‘and without the heinous bubble perm. The seventies were good for one thing and one thing only, which was showing people in the future exactly what not to do in terms of fashion. I found out recently that flares are supposed to be doing the rounds again in _Vogue_ and the like, and I had the worst flashbacks to my father at an ABBA-themed party when I was fourteen.’ He shudders. ‘If you thought Pierce Brosnan in _Mamma Mia!_ was terrible, count yourself lucky you never witnessed that. I had to have therapy for years.’

Philippe laughs. ‘I can sympathise. My mother’s favourite song was by the Bay City Rollers and sometimes in nightmares I swear I can hear the strains of _Bye Bye Baby_.’

Chev smiles and gestures to the table. ‘I’m thinking about a preliminary glass of wine at least. Can I tempt you, darling?’

Philippe nods. ‘God, yes. Anything red is fine with me.’

Chev passes him the wine menu anyway and toys with his glass as he watches Philippe peruse it. Sensing the amused gaze resting on him, Philippe glances up shyly.

‘So serious,’ Chev teases.

‘Choosing one’s wine is a serious business,’ Philippe says mock-archly. ‘Otherwise I could end up drinking any old rubbish.’

‘A fate worse than death,’ Chev agrees with a sombre nod, and winks. ‘Having been here before, I can recommend the rioja,’ he pointed out one of the menu options. ‘One of my favourites.’

‘Well, I’m always open to suggestion,’ Philippe replies, and they both order the rioja when a waiter next comes by the table. Philippe also orders bruschetta to start, whilst Chev opts for calamari, and they make more small talk about different options on the menu and the atmosphere of the restaurant (intimate, particularly in their corner, despite the number of other patrons) whilst waiting for their drinks to arrive.

‘To turn your earlier question back on you,’ Philippe says, for once initiating the conversation, ‘what would your three wishes be? If I were a genie and popped out of – I don’t know, the wine bottle – and asked you what you wished for most in the world, what would you say?’

‘A mansion in the Bahamas, my own private jet, and a Victoria’s Secret model girlfriend to share them with.’ Chev says with a teasing smile. ‘No. I’d wish for a better job, to be sure; something royal. Can’t you just imagine me with a crown, darling? I’m made to be royalty. Alas, I was born the son of a respected and yet deeply dull lawyer, and have not a drop of blue in my veins. Still, one does what one can to muddle through. So, a better job. I’d wish to have a house of my own, instead of something my father rents for me at an exorbitant price and thus can hold over my head whenever I ‘misbehave’. And I’d get a cat.’

‘You can buy a cat, or adopt one,’ Philippe says, laughing. ‘You don’t need to wish for one, surely?’

‘But if I wish for one, then I can get exactly the one I want. I’d love a ragdoll, with big blue eyes and chocolate points and the kind of temperament that makes them hate everyone who’s not their sole owner. I want something whose attention is entirely devoted to me. Call me selfish, but it’s true. I had to share as a child and I never quite learned how.’

Philippe nods. ‘Large family?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Four brothers and a sister.’

Philippe grimaces. ‘ _Four_ brothers. Christ. If I had to deal with four Louis’, I’d go mad.’

‘Ah, a kindred spirit. Siblings in general are an annoyance, I’ve found. My brothers are either hideously oafish and into all those rough rugged sports that ruin one’s hair – like rugby – or hideously pious. We were forced to attend an all-boys Catholic school throughout and I would say it quite ruined the younger three.’ He shudders theatrically and then brightens as a waiter places their plates down on the table. Philippe takes a sip of his wine and watches as Chev begins to eat, elegantly but with undeniable enthusiasm. He smiles.

‘Hungry?’

‘Ravenous,’ his date agrees with a heavy sigh. ‘I’ve been rushed off my feet all day running errands for my boss, and this is the first time I’ve had more than a couple of minutes to find something to eat. Their calamari is possibly the best I’ve ever tasted, but I’m also aware that as they say, hunger is the best seasoning.’

Philippe offers him a piece of bruschetta, holding out the slice of baguette with his fingers, and Chev takes a careful bite whilst maintaining total eye contact. For some insane reason, this sends a warm shiver down Philippe’s spine, and he can feel his cheeks heating with a blush. Chev’s innocent smile turns wicked for a moment, his eyes glinting in the light, before he takes another bite of calamari leaving Philippe still holding his own starter in midair and gaping like a fool.

‘How’s yours?’ Chev asks, gesturing to Philippe’s hand with his fork, and Philippe comes to his senses, quickly shoving his bruschetta into his mouth and taking an awkwardly large bite. It takes a long time to chew enough to swallow, and he forces it down with the feeling of his cheeks flushing even brighter. As expected, he’d made a total fool out of himself, and no doubt his date was by this point wondering when his asylum minders would turn up to cart him back where he belonged.

‘Y-yes,’ he struggles, swallowing again so he can speak more clearly. ‘Very good.’

‘Did you get a little distracted?’ Chev teases, his eyes twinkling. ‘It’s understandable, darling. I am entirely gorgeous.’

‘You’re not kidding,’ Philippe says unthinkingly, and quickly hides his blush in another mouthful of bruschetta, chewing furiously and inwardly kicking himself. He’s so absorbed in chastising himself for his thoughtless, artless flattery that he misses the way a genuinely warm, pleased smile flutters across Chev’s lips and his gaze softens almost imperceptibly.  
  


* * *

  
Over the course of the meal, they get to know each other a little better, including Philippe being quizzed on his opinions of various popular tabloid celebrities (for the most part, they’re a waste of newspaper space and journalists’ – if you can call the sort of people who write those kinds of articles journalists – time) and music (everything most people would be embarrassed to be caught listening to). Philippe in turn asks about Chev’s tattoos – he catches sight of a pair of slim black bands around the tops of his forearms, just below his elbow, which Chev got at nineteen when he was drunk after a university party – and favourite films. They bond over a mutual love of _The Princess Bride_ and _The Mummy_ , and a mutual hatred of wanky, artsy foreign-language films of the kind hipsters everywhere worship.

Philippe orders the ravioli for his main, only to be outraged when it arrives in the form of three – three! – ravioli in the very small centre of an enormous plate, whilst Chev orders the sea bass in orange crumb and receives a portion size that could feed half of the army. Philippe is still raging at this injustice and Chev laughing at him when Philippe’s phone goes off in his pocket. He asks if Chev minds if he takes it, and at his shake of the head, he pulls his mobile out of his jeans and opens the text.

_Sorry he stood you up. Bastard! Ice cream and duvet day later? x L_

Philippe stares at the screen in confusion for a couple of seconds before realisation hits like a flood of cold water and he drops his phone to the table, sinking his head into his hands with a loud and not entirely voluntary groan of ‘Oh, _God_!’

‘What’s the matter? Bad news?’

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. You must think I’m such a lunatic – just coming and sitting at your table randomly – you – I’m so sorry, I should – I should leave you alone – Christ – this is why I didn’t want to do this, fuck, I’m so embarrassed – please, I’m so sorry, I, um, I’ll – I’ll pay for my food and, and leave you be–’ He’s babbling, he knows he is, but he’s swamped with such total mortification at having approached a complete stranger, someone who wasn’t even expecting a blind date, and just sat down like he belonged there and – and told him all about his life and everything and oh, God, he’s going to kill Liselotte.

‘Calm down,’ Chev says firmly, reaching out to pull Philippe’s hands away from his face. He seems taken aback by the amount of genuine distress on Philippe’s face, however, because his expression softens and he takes Philippe’s hand in his, smoothing his thumb over Philippe’s knuckles gently.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Philippe apologises again, and Chev waves him away.

‘I should have told you from the outset, but in all honesty, darling, this shyness of yours is somewhat endearing. And it’s been lovely, actually. I’d say that if you’ve enjoyed yourself then by all means stay.’ He squeezes Philippe’s hand.

‘I… are you sure?’

‘I asked, did I not?’ Chev smiles. ‘Stay. You’ve not even had dessert yet, and surely you wouldn’t deny me the sight of you getting the chocolate fondant you were so excited about when you saw it on the menu?’

Philippe ducks his head to hide a smile, and Chev laughs softly.

He obediently stays, and Chev does indeed get to see him with his chocolate fondant, laughingly wiping a smudge of chocolate off his bottom lip with a licked corner of his napkin when Philippe’s finished. It’s all very intimate, which Philippe finds he surprisingly doesn’t mind, even after the realisation that he’s accidentally had a date with somebody he’s never met before and wasn’t supposed to meet tonight. They go Dutch on the bill, and Chev walks him to the nearest taxi rank before stopping.

He looks almost shy beneath the streetlight, which makes Philippe smile as he tentatively reaches out to link their fingers. He looks up at the stars and Chev follows suit, following the blinking light of an aeroplane overhead with his eyes.

‘Hey,’ Philippe says quietly, and Chev looks at him, ‘kiss me if I’m wrong, but dinosaurs still exist, right?’

Chev laughs and leans in, and Philippe closes his eyes with a smile as they close a successful date.


End file.
